Gracefully Facedown
by 50ftQueenie
Summary: This is what Raylan gets for being nosey- for letting his curiosity over Tim's new coffee obsession get the best of him. Nada slash.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own "Justified" or "Fire in The Hole". The story title comes from a song by The Devil Makes Three.

This story returns to my "Moonshine Blind" Universe and begins right after that one ends.

**Gracefully Facedown**

_When you squint real hard through the bottom of the bottle, things really don't look so bad…_

Tim Gutterson went straight from his court-ordered AA meeting to the bar on 45th street with no windows. He ordered a beer and a shot from the bartender, and then went to the back booth where he could watch the door. He felt like a criminal and he blamed Art, although- deep down- he knew the only person to blame was himself.

Both Art and the Lexington Country Drug Court Judge had insisted it wasn't a punishment. It damn-sure felt like one. It was the worst in the string of sanctions laid out by the Drug Court: two weeks suspension without pay and then two weeks of desk duty and suspension of his weapon. That was a Marshall's service thing. The court itself gave him time served, a fine, and twelve weeks of mandatory AA meetings. Art and the Judge both suggested it was more of an opportunity than a punishment.

The court secretary gave Tim a list of all of the meetings in Lexington and a card to have signed every time he attended a meeting. She told him he'd need to get a sponsor. Tim looked at Art.

"I drink," Art said. "I can't be your sponsor. I'm not quitting so I can be your sponsor."

Tim gave him a more pleading look.

"I can't and I won't," Art told him. "Look at it like an opportunity. Branch out, Tim. Make some friends."

"I have friends," Tim said.

"But they all drink. Make a friend who doesn't drink."

Tim insisted he had friends who didn't drink. Art asked him who the hell that might be.

"Rachel," Tim said.

"Outside of work," Art replied.

The court secretary added, "And your sponsor should be your same gender. It prevents conflicts…crushes…unless you're…"

Tim rolled his eyes. He followed Art out of the courtroom scanning the list of meetings for one that wasn't held in a church. When they got to the elevator, Art pushed the 'up' button. When Tim didn't do it, he pushed the 'down' button for Tim.

"Where are you going now?" Art asked him.

Tim shrugged. "Home, I guess. Maybe I'll case a couple of these meeting sites."

Art grinned. He had a wise comment to make, but he didn't make it. He got it: guys like Tim were more comfortable once they had the lay of the land. Tim would drive by the addresses in daylight and decide which location was most comfortable. Or the least anxiety-producing.

"I think I'll take a walk, get some coffee," Tim offered, just to make it sound like he had a plan.

"Swapping addictions, are you?"

"I was already addicted to coffee," Tim told him.

The elevator door opened and Art got on. Tim stood and watched until the door closed. His elevator opened and he took it back to the basement.

Having nothing but time on his hands, Tim walked from the courthouse to his new coffee spot. He had stumbled upon it by accident, although it was hard to miss. It was one of those temporary/ seasonal coffee stands- this one was built to look like a tropical beach hut. Tim didn't understand the correlation with coffee, but he'd been unable to resist the aroma of coffee on the air the day he'd been suspended and sent home after his DUI arrest.

He'd been stopping at the coffee hut ever since. The same girl was there every day, and she didn't give him any shit. She was cute, although not really his type. Her hair was bobbed. Some days it was platinum blonde and some days it was powdery pink. It had to be a wig. For the first week, Tim didn't much care what she looked like. After the second week and his court date, though, he was adrift enough to ask her, "That hurt?" in regards to the neon orange ball piercing in her cheek.

"This?" She asked, raising her arm to show him a marble-sized burn on her forearm. "Hurts like hell. I did it, like, an hour ago, but it's still burning."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I meant the pierced…the piercing, but that's a mother of a burn. You run cold water on it?"

She smiles. That was the first thing she did. She absentmindedly pushed the piercing outward with her tongue.

"You come here a lot, huh?" She never answered his question about the piercing.

"I have been," Tim said. "I like coffee."

"You know what's good?" She said. "This Ethiopian shit…stuff. It tastes like cinnamon, and I thought that sounded like crap when I first read it on the bag, and then…damn, it's thick as mud too. You like it real strong?"

Tim shrugged. He figured he could handle it.

"They make it like that in Yemen," he told her. "And Turkey. It's like drinking paint."

"You been to Yemen?"

He nodded. "Yeah, a few years ago. In the military we used to get r-and-r there and in Turkey."

"What'd you do in the military?" She asked.

The first thing to pop into his head was "killed people", but he told her instead, "I was a sniper, so I drank a lot of coffee."

She smiled. She looked young, but she wasn't a teenager. Without seeing her real hair, he couldn't quite nail down her ethnicity. She might have been Latina or biracial. She might have been Arabic except she didn't seem to know much about the Middle East. She was wearing gold eye shadow and liner.

Their awkward dance, with no names exchanged, went on for the duration of Tim's two-week suspension. The night before he was scheduled to return to work, he left his AA meeting and went to the bar. The coffee hut girl walked in ten minutes later.

She stepped up to the bar and spoke to the bartender, but he didn't make her a drink. He nodded towards the back and she nodded back. She turned towards Tim, and he noticed her eyes shift this way and that. She wasn't wearing the eye liner. He thought she was prettier without it. She walked over to his booth.

"So coffee's not all you drink," she said. Tim felt guilty. She pointed to his empty shot glass. "Scotch or bourbon?"

"Bourbon," he said. He remembered Art's edict from when he went to court. The girl didn't appear to be drinking, so he told her, "I'm Tim."

It felt strange to give away information.

The girl blinked in a way that told him she was flattered by his offering. She stuck out her hand and said, "I'm…"

And then the juke box kicked in and her voice was lost. She frowned and turned to glare at the jukebox, not that it did any good. She opened her mouth and shut it again, unable to complete with "Dance Little Sister". She took evasive action and dug a pen out of her purse. She wrote on Tim's napkin and then pushed it towards him.

Then, with an apologetic look, she shrugged and pointed towards the back. She had to go. Tim nodded and gave her a little wave. She went through a door to the back of the bar. There was an exit sign to it, and Tim figured the restrooms were back there and- beyond them- the alley.

He picked up the napkin. On it, she had written "Leigh" and her phone number. Tim smiled and put the napkin in his pocket. He could run her name tomorrow when he got back to work. No way was she just in the bar in use the restroom. She was meeting somebody and not coming back through the front door.

He hadn't made the friend Art had wished for him, but now he had something to do when he was stuck on desk duty.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own Justified or "Fire in the Hole".

**Gracefully Face Down**

Two-

Three weeks later…

It just isn't right- a man buying his coffee from a hut. Raylan can hardly stand himself. It's too goddamned early in the morning to be standing under the fake canopy woven from what appears to be Easter basket grass waiting for the barista to whip up something grande for Tim Gutterson and then something plain and black for himself. This is what he gets for being nosey- for letting his curiosity over Tim's new coffee obsession get the best of him.

Raylan lets his gaze wander across the street. The hut sits on a street corner three and a half blocks from the courthouse looking like Hurricane Elaine sucked it up off of some plastic Fisher-Price beach somewhere and dumped in downtown Lexington. It is an anomaly and an eyesore. Raylan taps on the faux plastic bamboo shell that he already knows is hollow. He hums to himself and tries to concentrate on the traffic to keep from grinning.

"_Runnin' Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday_…" The girl within the hut begins to sing along as she sets his coffee down. "Police on your back this morning?"

Raylan shakes his head. "We kind of are the police. No…I didn't realize…_'Sandinista!_'…makes me think of 'barista'."

"We're not baristas here. That's a Starbucks thing."

"What're you then?"

She shrugs. "Janie Jones?"

Raylan smirks. She's winning him over.

Tim frowns back and forth between them both. He's too young, Raylan figures, and too far to the right for The Clash.

Raylan leans against the counter once more. He bends his plastic coffee stirrer into a triangle. He holds it between his thumb and index finger and flicks it at Tim. It bounces off of Tim's sleeve. That Tim doesn't draw down and fire in his agitated state is near to a miracle in Raylan's book.

For the past three weeks- since returning from his suspension- Tim has heroically volunteered to get their morning coffee at this place. Everyday he returns to the office in the same preoccupied state of pissed off. He makes some notes, files them, and then barely touches his coffee. This morning, against his better judgment, Raylan joined him on his trip to the hut.

What he found there more than made up for the tackiness of the hut itself: a neon-haired, tattooed and pierced hippie chick with the awesome power drive his coworker into a state of babbling distraction. She barely says "hi" to Tim; it's like she's mad at him for something, and Tim can't formulate words into sentences around her. Raylan is beside himself with amusement. He is going to tell everyone back at the courthouse- maybe even Vasquez.

The anti-barista finishes with Tim's double shot of whatever. He pays her, grumbles something and drops a meager tip in the Ball jar on the counter with the word "Karma" painted on it. Scandalized, Raylan coughs and gives the girl a better tip.

Tim has already turned away and is heading back towards the courthouse. Raylan jogs to catch up to him.

"She's cute. You should ask her out."

"Her name isn't Janie Jones," Tim informs him. "It's Leigh Michelle Randall. She was born April 26, 1987 in Bloomington, Indiana."

"I know her name isn't Janie Jones. It's the name of a song. She has good taste in music. Why do you know her name…and everything else about her? She already shoot you down? Is that why you're acting like she poured that cup of coffee over your balls?"

"She's dealing out of that place," Tim says. "It's a front, and she's a dealer. She told me her name…once…and it's her on the Department of Health license by the register. I looked her up. She has a record."

Raylan cackles. "You mean you thought she was cute but rather than ask her out you lifted her name off of her Department of Health license and ran a background check…and now you're pissed off because you found out she has a record."

"No...She started…no, and I'm pissed about it because she's still dealing. Revolving door prison system. She's right back out on the street and back at it."

"And lookin' fine doin' it," Raylan taunts him. "You should still ask her out."

"Stake her out maybe."

"It's only a date if both of you are aware that you're on one, Tim."

"Thanks, Raylan. I remember dating better than you'd think. Unlike you, I choose to not troll from the dregs of our witnesses and suspects."

"Drink your coffee. Christ."

Tim lifts his Styrofoam cup to his lips, but the blast that shakes the block behind them knocks it out of his hand. Tim and Raylan hit the sidewalk. Their respective cups of coffee bounce and slosh out of reach. Debris rattles across the pavement. Car alarms begin screaming all around them.

Raylan stands up shakes off the tumble. He stands up slowly and draws his side arm. Tim is up beside him. They trade glances and Tim shouts for the bystanders to stay back.

Ashes falling from the air tickle at Raylan's face. They stick to the back of his hand and he brushes them away. He looks up and realizes it's the grass from the coffee hut canopy falling like tickertape from parade.

"Shit," he says and begins to hurry across the street. At first, he calls out, "Janie?"

Tim's voice reminds him of her real name, "Miss Randall? Leigh Randall?"

There is a shallow crater where the coffee hut once stood, almost as if whatever force of nature had abducted it and laid it down in Lexington has returned and launched it- along with Leigh Michelle Randall- back into the stratosphere.

* * *

"So, gentleman, I can hardly wait," Art Mullin says to Raylan and Tim when they return to the office. Art is perched on the corner Raylan's desk. Rachel is sitting at hers, all ears. "Tell how me it is that I send you out for coffee- a little adventure that should take five minutes, considering there's a machine that makes it in the basement…maybe fifteen minutes if you're a hip and happenin' young cat like Tim and have to get your coffee from that place down around the corner…in either case, tell me how it is that you've been gone for two hours, returned with no coffee, and in your absence the ATF called and told me they'd be down to get your statements? How does that work, exactly?"

"The Coffee Hut blew up," Raylan says.

"Well, shit," Art replies. "You two are banned from coffee detail. Maybe just for Raylan. Nothing blew up when Tim was going by himself. You see it happen?"

Tim nods. "It exploded just as we got across the street. I'd guess a remote detonator. Someone was watching to make sure no one else was close enough to be hit by the explosion. It was a hell of a charge- planned, professional. The girl inside was the sole target."

"The coffee girl?"

"She was a felon," Tim tells him. "Did eighteen months at Rockville for distributing. My guess is she was on someone's list as a witness. I'll check with Vasquez. Whoever he's trying to send down for dealing, she was probably set to testify against them. It's a start anyway…"

"Easy, tiger. This is ATF's baby…and how do you know so much about the coffee girl? Her felony record came up in casual conversation?"

"More like casual flirtation. Seems Tim took a shine to the young lady," Raylan says. "And he was stalking her."

Tim rolls his eyes and veers around Art to sit at his desk.

Art says, "Well, I'm sorry for your loss, Tim. You two are, however, done with this unless ATF wants anything from you. It's not our jurisdiction. I'm not even sure it's ATF's…except that something blew up. Might be DEA."

Raylan shrugs. "Because caffeine is a drug?"

"Because she was a dealer," Tim reminds him.

"Says you. I didn't see anything in that Lego hut that indicated…how much damn time have you spent 'observing' Miss Jones?"

"Miss Randall? Enough."

Rachel tosses a paper clip and hits Tim in the back of the head.

"ATF at nine o'clock," she tells them. "Coming off the elevator."

"I could use some coffee," Raylan says.

He and Tim return to their respective desks. Art meets the ATF agents as they enter the Marshal's office. He introduces himself, preventing them from brushing past him. He offers them the use of the conference room with the understanding that his Marshal's are busy- even Raylan. Since they aren't suspects, he'd prefer that they be questioned together to expedite the procedure. The ATF agents peer around Art.

"Kittleson," the first one introduces himself. "We have their contact info from LPD. There's just one thing we need an answer on for the time being. It's our understanding that there was only one worker inside of the coffee shack, but Deputy Gutterson referred to a 'Leigh' and Deputy Givens referred to a 'Janie'. Were there two workers? Who is Janie?"

Raylan shakes his head. "I was just calling her that. It's from a song…it was a joke. She and I were joking around."

The second ATF agent raises an eyebrow at Raylan. When he uses the word "knew", he's implying that it must have been biblically: "You knew the victim."

"No, but he did." Raylan jerks his head towards Tim.

"Just from getting coffee." Tim looks the agent right in the eye when he lies to him. He met her buying coffee. He only saw her that one other time and detached from further contact after that, so it's not really lying, right?

"So, you knew her or didn't you?" Kittleson asks.

"Just to say 'hi'," Tim says. "Didn't even know her real hair color."

Next to him, he senses Rachel shifting her weight in disapproval. He rolls his eyes.

"I didn't mean like _that_. Her hair changed every other day. She might have been wearing wigs…or dying it a hell of a lot."

"But her name was Leigh, not Janie?" Kittleson says.

"Yeah," Tim tells him. "It's her name on the Health Department License. Look her up."


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own Justified or "Fire in the Hole" or Raylan or Riding the Rap.

_Gracefully Facedown_

Three-

"Is he alright?" Art asks Raylan. They're standing shoulder to shoulder in the elevator. The doors close in front of them, cutting off their view of Tim who is still at his desk.

"Looks alright to me," Raylan says.

The elevator doors close. Art snorts and punches the "stop" button. The alarm begins to ring.

"Are you jealous?" He shouts to Raylan. "Is it breaking your heart that I ask if he's alright and not you? Or does the boundless insight into human psyche that you possess tell you that he's really alright?"

"He seems alright."

Art insists: "He knew the girl."

"Barely, from the sound of it."

"…which is as much as Tim knows anyone, as far as we know. He got his coffee from her. He used to drink bourbon with me. Who else do we know that he knows?"

"Doesn't he have to go to AA now? Does he have a sponsor?"

Raylan shifts on his feet and pushes his hat back. He wants more than anything to punch the "stop" button again to shut the alarm up. It was Art who stopped the elevator, though, and he'll let Art be the one to make that move.

"Shit," Art mutters. He punches the button, and then presses the one for the fifth floor. They ride together to the basement. When the doors open, Raylan looks at him.

"I'm going back up," Art says. He mumbles it, like he expects to regret it. "When he could drink, I drank with him."

"What are you going to do with him now?" Raylan asks. "Chew gum?"

"Go to hell, Raylan. Have a good night."

"I'm alright, by the way," Raylan says, getting off the elevator.

"I guess it's a spectrum," Art replies. The doors shut, and he rides back up to fifth.

Tim is standing at his desk, watching his computer shut down and feeling his pockets for his keys, when Art returns.

"You clocking out?" Is all Art says.

"Yep. I think I'll catch a meeting," Tim tells him. Art can't miss the hint of annoyance in his voice.

"You still doing that?

"Well, the court deemed it wise. Who am I to question?"

Art grins. "That's a question."

"I'm going," Tim says. He picks up a file from his desk. He waltzes around Art and out the door. Art tells himself that he shouldn't be worried. If Raylan was doing exactly as the court directed him, then he'd have cause to worry. Tim is by-the-book. Tim will tow the line until his twelve weeks are up. He might even learn something from the experience. Tim doing what he's supposed to do is no cause for alarm.

Maybe the nagging feeling in Art's stomach is guilt- he never did ask Tim if he was alright.

* * *

After the events of the day and the subsequent fussing from Art, Tim is almost thankful for the company at his court-ordered AA meeting. He might finally have something to tell them. He hasn't said much so far. He copped to "I'm an alcoholic" right off the bat to keep them from asking any more questions. Tonight, he can surprise is comrades with, "I had a difficult day at work."

In his parked truck across the street from the community center, he finishes the turkey sandwich he packed for himself earlier that morning and smirks at the fleeting wish that he had a beer to drink with it. He removes his badge and his secondary and locks them in the glove compartment. Then he gets out of the truck and hikes it up the walk to the community center.

This meeting is always packed. That's Tim's favorite thing about it- there are always new faces, newbies in the throws of a crisis who want to talk. Sometimes they don't even get around to everyone. Some nights, he can skate by without saying a word. He finds an empty chair where he can see both the door and the window and sits down.

He doesn't notice she's there until she sits down across the circle from him. She raises her eyebrows at him like she doesn't seem surprised to see him. At least she doesn't seem mad.

Randi McKittrick has cut her hair short since requesting a transfer out of the Marshal's office for the remainder of her psych internship. Tim isn't sure he likes the new hair, but there is a certain impish quality to it, and impish about nails the smirk she's giving him from the opposite side of the AA meeting.

Tim resolves to find himself another meeting.

Still he meets her at the coffee pot at the break. He debates whether or not to tell her he's sorry about Devil Ellis. What if this is the first she's heard about it? He decides that an AA meeting is probably the safest of places to break the news of a high school sweetheart's violent death and drops the bomb- or mumbles it, rather.

She's heard though. She shrugs and tells him her step-daddy in Arkansas called her.

"I hate to say I told him so," Randi says, referring to Devil- Tim figures- and not her stepfather. "You pay to play with those kinds of assholes. He knew that."

She doesn't seem too broken up on the outside, and Tim doesn't want to delve further.

"You interning here now, or what?" He asks her.

"Here? No, I'm here because I'm busted. Same as you, Gutterson." Just like on her first day at the Marshal's office when she reminded him that there would be evidence of him in her apartment along with her weed. She's leveled the playing field. This time, though, she wants him to know that she doesn't have an upper hand. "They sent me down to profile for your man Vasquez. Turns out he and I know some of the same people, except he knows them from sending them to jail. He told me I could take a drug test or find another assignment. I was running out of places to get assigned, so I just bit the bullet."

Tim nods. Then it occurs to him:

"I could use your help with something since you're back speaking to me again. It's work, something for work."

"It's not going to take me down to Harlan and get me shot at, is it?"

He shakes his head. "Won't take you anywhere. I just need to know about some of those people that both you and Vasquez know."

A grin spreads across Randi's face, but she avoids looking Tim in the eye. She grins down at her coffee, shaking her head.

"Trading addictions, are you?"

"No." Tim is incredulous. "I don't want to buy. I'm trying to find a guy…a guy who might have killed a witness. Any of your dealers able to drag their asses off the couch to pull off a homicide?"

"Shit," is all Randi says.

Alan the Sponsor calls them all back to the meeting. Tim's turn comes around. He tells the group his name is Tim and he's an alcoholic. It annoys the hell out of him when- five minutes later- Randi slips by with "my name is Randi and this is my first meeting". She won't admit to a thing.

He meets her outside and they elect to go back to her apartment to hash things out. Tim uses the word "hash" and adds "no pun intended". Randi tells him she's reformed and fresh out of that shit. She walked to the meeting from somewhere, so they take his truck.

They don't say much on the way there. They don't trade a word between the truck and her front door. They hurry up the stairs like they're both expecting rain. She opens the door with him on her heels. He shuts it with one hand and grabs her wrist with the other. She doesn't pull back or resist or anything. She knows what's coming, probably been planning it in her head same as him.

He slips her shirt up over her head and she says to him, "Hi, my name is Tim, and I'm…"

"Just don't," Tim says. He wraps his arms around her waist and steers her towards the bedroom.

* * *

"What happened today?" She asks him.

"What do you mean?" Tim is wide awake and wishing Randi was asleep. Since he's ducked out on her before, little chance of that happening.

"Come on, Gutterson. The only time you show up here is after the shit has hit the fan in some way or another. Plus, you're awful pushy this evening. Usually, it takes a little flirtatious sniping and bullshit to warm you up. You're not up for a fight. What's up?"

"I'm not up for a therapy session either. Save it. You ever buy from a girl named Leigh Michelle Randall?"

"Leigh? I know her. Buy off of her? If I did, I wouldn't be telling you."

"Why not? You're not under arrest. I'm in your bed- world's shittiest sting operation. You knew her?"

"Yeah…wait- 'knew' her? You said there was a homicide? Where's Leigh?"

Tim rubs his forehead.

Randi sits up. "She's dead? What the hell happened?"

"How well did you know her?"

"I bought from her a few times- between you, me, and the bedpost." She gestures at a bedpost that isn't there. She doesn't have a headboard. "We didn't hang out, but we knew the same people. She used to come to the bar…what happened?"

"When was the last time you bought from her? Recently?"

Randi nods. She hugs her knees up to her chest.

Tim asks, "She was just pushing, right? There was someone bigger that she was dealing for?"

"She didn't own a hundred acres down in Harlan County, no. She was just selling dime bags, observing the less than eight ounce rule. Firmly in misdomeanor territory…same as me, by the way, when you search the place later."

"Do you know who she worked for?"

"Yeah, but…what happened to her, Tim?"

"Someone bombed that little coffee place where she worked. She was killed in the explosion. Raylan and I were just across the street. I'd just seen her…"

He doesn't know why he's telling her the last part. He knows she won't missed the regret in his voice.

Randi asks him, "How well did _you_ know her?"

"Just to say 'hi'," Tim tells her. "She gave me her number once, but I never called her because I found out she was a felon."

"Pot calls the kettle black, jailbird." Randi looks back at him and raises her eyebrows.

"It's not quite the same thing," Tim says. He reaches forward and tugs at her waist to see if she'll shrug him off. She lets him pull her back next to him.

"Do you know the guy she was dealing for?" Tim asks after a while. "You ever hear Vasquez talk about him?"

"If you're asking me, then it's not in Marshal jurisdiction, is it?"

"It knocked me on my ass on the sidewalk this morning. My bruised ass, my jurisdiction. If the AUSAs are building a case…and Leigh was going to be a witness…or if this guy thought she might turn and he had her killed…shit, when was the last time you saw him?"

Randi turns in the crook of his arm and tilts her head up to look at him. She's frowning- it doesn't take her more than half a second to put it together.

"How well do you know him, McKittrick?" Tim asks. "Have they pulled him in for questioning? Had him in custody and cut him loose? Has he seen you in Vasquez's office? Shit, is this the same guy…the one Vasquez knows you know?"

She turns on to her back, twists her earring around in her earlobe. After a long pause, she asks him,

"Are you staying the night?"

"Yeah," Tim says. He sits up and snatches his jeans up from the floor. "I'll be right back. I have to get my secondary out of my truck."


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own Justified.

I keep re-reading this and making little changes. What I get for writing with the assistance of a 5 year-old child. Hopefully, it makes some sense.

**Gracefully Facedown**

Four-

Duran Getty isn't as pretty to look at as Leigh Randall, at least not from where Tim is standing. Randi said the ladies dug Getty, the younger set anyway. Being the youngest Marshal in the office, it has never occurred to Tim that he's no longer one of the "younger set". He guesses Randi meant college kids, the undergrads.

Getty was once something of a hometown hero, a big-shot baller for UK, until he wrapped his Charger around a tree driving fast after a frat party and killed his passenger- another UK player. He did his time at Blackburn- not at Green River, to the dismay of the other player's family- but never found himself welcome again in the field house. His next arrest was for armed robbery, but he was acquitted. He stayed clear of the law for the next three or four years, but all the kids around UK knew that he was still the big man on campus.

Tim leans against the water fountain across the hall from the Assistant US Attorney's office. He watches Duran Getty get off the elevator and come down the hall. He still moves with the grace of a ball player. He must clear six foot four so he has no need to walk fast; he makes a yard with each step. If he needed to, he could move fast. Spin like a dancer.

Tim is standing in plain sight. Getty sees him, smiles, and nods a 'good morning'. There's something bashful about him that Tim finds odd. This guy has never made the mental transition to hardened criminal. He's still ashamed to be seen in the court house. His size is probably the only thing that kept him from being crushed by prison life.

Still- per their discussion earlier this morning- Randi doesn't believe Getty would have a problem getting rid of a witness like Leigh, although she agreed with Tim that a bombing doesn't seem quite his style.

"What is his style, do you think?" Tim asked her as they drove to work.

"Not sure. They say he shot at someone in that robbery, but the AUSA could never establish who pulled the trigger. Someone fired a shot over the jewelry store clerk's head, but the gun was clean. Getty and his buddies all turned on one another. Or maybe they didn't. Maybe they planned it. Each of them just pointed to someone else as the trigger man, and they all walked in the end."

"Any of those guys have any experience with explosives?"

Randi shrugged and shook her head. "They all went their separate ways after that, kept their distance from one another. So far as I know, they haven't seen each other since the acquittal."

"How did they know each other before?"

"One of them was a high school buddy of Getty's from somewhere in Indiana. The other one was a local douche bag…"

"Where in Indiana?"

"Way ahead of you. Bloomington- same as Leigh, but she was younger. They must have known each other, too, but I couldn't tell you how. How big is Bloomington? Maybe they just saw each other around."

Randi had told Tim that Getty was due in Vasquez's office at 9:00. She said he was always a few minutes late, but not too much. She figured he was trying to bug Vasquez- he had a mischievous streak- but not enough to draw down a bench warrant. He always showed, just always a couple minutes late.

Tim had plenty of time to check in at the Marshal's office- turn on his computer, look up the population of Bloomington, Indiana. He told Art that he was only going downstairs for his coffee at nine.

"Bring me back…" Raylan calls out as Tim walks past his desk on the way to the elevator. Tim waves him off, but winks at Rachel.

He stands in the third floor hall long enough to get a look at Duran Getty, nod 'good morning' to him, and watch him disappear behind Vasquez's door.

He'd wanted to get a visual impression of Getty, and now he had it. The guy has probably eight inches on Tim, but doesn't know how to handle a gun. Cocky on the court, no doubt, but beaten down in everything else he tries to do. No way this guy is behind any bombing.

The door to the AUSA office flies open and Vasquez flies out into the hallway. He sees Tim and grunts. Tim straightens up and moves on towards the elevator.

"It's a little early," Vasquez says to him.

Tim goes "hmm?"

"School's not out until three, if you're here to walk Miss McKittrick home."

Tim shakes his head. "I was curious about something else, actually. That gentleman who just went in…"

"Duran Getty? Nothing curious or gentlemanly about him. He was a lowlife before he got drafted to play ball. Went back to being a lowlife when he blew that shot."

"Then why he didn't play ball in Bloomington?"

Vasquez frowns at Tim.

Tim says, "Indiana University is in Bloomington- why didn't they want him? Why come here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. He told me he had some juvenile stuff back home. Maybe he came here to get away from it. Maybe Indiana didn't want him. Maybe KU just offered him a better deal. What's your fascination with it?"

"Just curious. Leigh Michelle Randall…"

"Holy shit, now that is a fascinating story," Vasquez says. He gives up trying to explain it all to Tim in the hall and herds him towards the elevator. "Wasn't expecting that…what I just got in my office. Popped the question to him- told him about Miss Randall and asked him what he had to do with it. The son of a bitch is slumped down over my desk crying his eyes out. I'm not shitting you- he's crying like my six-year old. So, I'm guessing he didn't have anything to do with that."

"But clearly they knew one another."

"They sure as hell did. He says knocked her up in high school. Her parents took the baby. They could've sent him up for statutory, but maybe there's your answer…they may have strongly suggested he go to college out of state instead. Until she met Getty, Miss Randall led a charmed life- adopted to university professors. Never wanted for shit. I think she must've been going through a rebellious stage or something. Went looking for Getty when she finished high school, and found him in Blackburn. They've been raising all manner of hell- together and separately- ever since. He's not playing a game now, though. I tend to believe that he didn't know she was dead. Again, what's your interest?"

"I just thought…" Tim stops and shakes his head. "Yeah, I was there when the Coffee place blew. Me and Raylan. I wanted to get a look at the guy, but- yeah- he doesn't seem like the type."

"Satisfied then?" Vasquez asks. He doesn't wait for a reply. "Get on back upstairs, Deputy. That explosion is all ATF, and Getty is all mine and neither the twain shall meet. And neither has anything to do with the Marshalls."

The elevator door opens to the courthouse basement. Tim steps past Vasquez.

"Coffee," he promises. "And then back upstairs."

* * *

Just before lunch, however, the ATF comes looking for him.

Kittleson comes alone this time. He requests a word with Raylan and Tim. Out of politeness, he suggests they speak in the privacy of Art's office.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Kittleson says, more to Art than to Tim and Raylan. "I just thought you out to know- we had the dog out there this morning looking for remains, but there don't seem to be any. No one died in that explosion. Leigh Randall is in the wind."

"And now a suspect, I'd guess?" Art asks.

"Yeah, which brings us back up here. You said you knew her…" He turns to Tim.

"Barely. Not well enough to know if she had any experience with explosives."

"She knew her way around a bong."

"It's not quite the same thing," Tim says. He doesn't know why he's defending her. She could've killed him and Raylan and anyone else on the street. If she was the one who blew up the coffee hut.

"I know it's not the same thing," Kittleson says. "But I just thought I'd check; see if you knew anything about her beyond work. I understand you had a little run-in yourself recently, Deputy."

Art leans back in his chair and scowls at Kittleson. "Hold on, there. Since when is my deputy part of your investigation? A DUI arrest doesn't exactly assume consorting with dope dealers in my book."

Tim shifts to avoid looking at Art. That he does actually have an answer for the ATF isn't going to make his Chief Deputy glow with pride.

"Check with AUSA Vasquez downstairs," he says. "He had her baby-daddy in for questioning this morning."

KIttleson nods and thanks Art- not Tim and Raylan- for his time. He departs, presumably to go downstairs and bother Vasquez. Tim and Raylan head for the door.

"Oh no, not just yet," Art says. "Raylan, you can go. Tim, stick around for a second, will you?"

Tim sighs. He shuts the door behind Raylan, but remains standing.

"I know you said it wasn't ours," he says.

"And yet you still know more about it than the ATFs," Art replies. "Do you or don't you know this girl?"

"I don't, really. It was just a casual thing…it wasn't even a thing. Just to say 'hello' on the street. She gave me her number once, but I never called her."

Art frowns. "Why the hell not?"

"I found out she was a felon first."

"And now you feel bad because you shined her on so you're going to try to avenge her faked death by staying one step ahead of the ATFs and the AUSAs? Jesus Christ, Tim. Federal jurisdiction does not take into consideration matter of the heart."

"There was no matter of the heart," Tim protests.

"Well, now you'll never know, will you? I'm sorry, son, but that's the way it's got to stay."

"Unless she's a fugitive now."

"Well, if that's the case, then you're more than welcome to sit and wait for that call from the ATFs just as soon as they find her and need a transport. Just please find some actual Marshal business to work on while you're waiting by your phone."


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own Justified or "Fire in the Hole" or Raylan or Riding the Rap. Or _Othello_.

_Gracefully Facedown_

Five-

Art picks up his ringing phone.

"Mullen."

"Did you send them?" It's Vasquez.

"Did I send who? Whom…is it who or whom?"

"It's the ATF in my office and all up in my business with Duran Getty. Did you know Leigh Randall was alive?"

"Only moments before you did, and that's the truth," Art says. "The ATF came up here to hassle Tim."

"And you sent him forth with the news to hassle me. I thank you. I was this close with Getty. Had him for possession and distribution of enough weed to stone Berkeley for a week. He was going to turn on his grower, but now it all goes to ATF and Getty's under protection. He'll probably walk. Again. Tell your Deputy I send him my regards. Tell him I'm also sending up my intern since he likes her so much."

Art smirks. He suspects it is jealousy he detects in Vasquez' voice. He knows better than to think it's over the girl. So he brings up the girl. "That so? I kind of liked having her around myself. Are you sending her back for good or for a friendly visit?"

"I'm sending her with a file," Vasquez says. "As long as she and your Deputy are hell bent on fucking me up, they might as well make themselves useful on some level."

Art grins. Good old Vasquez. He's got to put on the show- be tough and crotchety, but he can't stop himself. Deep down, he's a good guy and he just wants the job to get done. And he knows who will get the job done.

"She's just coming through the door," Art says. "Would you like her back or shall I keep her for a while?"

"How much longer is her internship supposed to last?" Vasquez asks. He hangs up before Art can answer.

Art goes out into the main office. He holds his hand out for the file Randi is carrying.

"Whatchya got for me, Miss McKittrick? You take a peek at it in the elevator?"

She smiles at Art.

"I'm not a detective, sir."

"Yeah, but you're sharp enough to know that Vasquez isn't sending you up passing notes because he thinks Tim is so cute. What's it say?"

Randi hands the file to Art. He doesn't open it, waiting instead for her to tell him.

"It's a list," she says. "Girls names. Getty almost exclusively uses girls for dealers. They show up to parties, look cute, charm the socks off the frat boys. Vasquez wasn't pursuing any of them for distribution. He was going to, but he got lucky and hit a nerve with the first one. Told Getty he was going to pull her in for questioning and he caved."

"Leigh Randall?" Tim calls out from behind his desk.

Randi feigns shock at seeing him. She nods.

"Leigh wasn't a very good dealer. I mean, she wasn't inconspicuous. That's how I met her. I kicked her out of the bar because I could see what she was up to watching her across the room."

Tim smirks. "_You_ kicked her out?"

"Yeah, I did," Randi gives Tim _a shut up!_ kind of a look, but continues. "Hooked her up with a party later that night, but I told her she had to stay out of the bar. Either the cops were on to her then or she found another bar because they were ready to bust her again. Getty shut it down."

Tim explains to Art, "Leigh Randall had a baby with Getty when they were in high school."

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave," Art muses.

"Is that Shakespeare?" Randi asks.

"Walter Scott," Tim says without pause. "I've seen Getty, but you've met him. You think he's a killer? The first-degree kind?"

Randi shakes her head. "No, I think…" She looks at Art and thinks about her choice of words, then goes ahead with it anyway. "I think he's a big pussy. I can see wishing her dead because she's become inconvenient, but he's not cold-blooded. And I definitely can't see him planting a bomb. He doesn't like to get dirty."

"But he has people who would get dirty for him," Tim says. He thinks of Leigh and suddenly he gets what Randi doesn't like about Duran Getty. "You wouldn't put it past him to pay someone to do it."

"Except that he seemed genuinely shocked when Vasquez told him she was dead. Yes, I think he's capable, but- in this case- I don't think he had anything to do with it. The question maybe we should be asking now is would Leigh fake her own death."

Art hands the file over to Tim and says, "Well, you two keep busy with that."

"I thought it was ATFs and all hell was going to break lose if I didn't back off."

"Vasquez says differently," Art gives him a half-truth. "Getty was his first, and he wants Getty back. You and Miss McKittrick are going to get him back. If Getty had nothing to do with the explosion and Leigh's disappearance, he goes back to being the AUSA's problem. Find something that proves that Leigh was acting alone, or that she's someone else's victim."

He stops short of telling them to just find Leigh. He knows that's what Tim is thinking, and Art is curious as to how the boy is going to play that- using one former one-night stand to find the girl who could've, should've been his next one-night stand.

Art frowns and wonders if he is somehow responsible for driving Raylan to be the kind of Marshall that he is. He certainly seems to be pointing Tim in that direction.

Randi and Tim have already backed away from Art and are comparing notes. Randi tells Tim that she has to check back in with Vasquez and get her bag, and then she can work out of the office for the rest of the day. She smiles and nods to Art and heads towards the elevator.

Art inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders, trying to get a hitch out of his neck.

"She loved me for the dangers I had passed, and I loved her that she did pity them," he says, watching Randi disappear behind the elevator door. Then he says to Tim, "that's Shakespeare."

"I know," Tim says. He's frowning down at his desk. He gets the point.

* * *

She isn't his type, but then Tim tells himself that about most women. He has a vague notion of what he wants: warm body, smiles when she sees him walk into a room, doesn't ask questions that he doesn't want to answer. He thinks he wants someone pretty and distant.

Randi looks up and smiles when he walks into the room.

Unfortunately, it's a room where a seven o'clock AA meeting is being held. Randi's smiling because she thinks it's funny. They'd talked about this before leaving the courthouse two hours ago: they couldn't keep going to the same meeting. They did a round or two of "I'll switch"/ "No, I will". Then they both switched without telling the other and picked the same replacement meeting.

Tim sits down next to her. She's shaking her head and grinning.

"I said you could keep the other meeting," Tim says like he's talking about custody of a child or a pet.

"I figured you had a reason for choosing it. I just went that one night because I'd blown it off the rest of the week and I needed a signature. It's your meeting."

Tim wonders how she knows that he chose that meeting with purpose. He did: it wasn't in a church. Most of the other attendees are vets, Vietnam and a couple of Korea- era, but still. They're almost all drinkers and not dopers.

Still- old habits dying hard- he baits her: "You want me to leave?"

She doesn't bite: "You need a signature and I need a signature, Gutterson. Neither of us is really looking to get cured. Let's just sit tight…"

"And then we can go home and fuck," he thinks to himself. He shrugs and settles in.

The sponsor shuts the door and takes a seat. Tim lets his gaze wander to the window until she begins to speak.

"Good evening, everyone. There are a few new faces here tonight, so I'll introduce myself, and then we'll go around. I'm Angela and I'm an addict…"

He hears himself saying _Hi, Angela_ but it's taking most of his concentration to keep from grinning. He looks Angela over. She's younger than Randi, but maybe a little older than Leigh Randall. She looks like a hippie, but in a calculated way. Sandals with painted toenails. She has a tattoo on her ankle. It might be a dolphin. Her name is Angela Ramone.

She's number four on Duran Getty's list of dealer girls.

He sneaks a peek at Randi. She winks at him. Tim thinks of one more thing he knows he likes in a woman: he likes a woman who's one step ahead.

* * *

She follows his back to his truck after the meeting. Tim is near to jubilant.

"I counted four," he says.

"Yeah, we hit pay-dirt there alright," Randi says. "I don't know who's recruiting who, but one of them is handpicking the others for Duran out of that meeting."

"How did you know?"

"I tried this meeting a couple of weeks ago, and ditched it. Too many familiar faces from work. Once I saw that list today, I knew why that was. They're all in the same boat as you and me- first conviction for something small or no conviction at all. Attend the meetings and all is forgiven. All of them are just there to get Big Brother off of their backs, no intention of changing their ways. She's has a good eye for them."

"Then why hasn't she tried to rope you?"

"Too old, I'd guess. You don't think I'm too old, do you, Tim?" She rolls her eyes and grins at him.

"It's made you wise," He says and grins back at her. He has to duck away to keep from getting swatted by her bag.

Of course, once they're back in the truck and she's lying with her head in his lap and her feet- crossed at the ankles- out the window, then the feeling starts to nag at him. He's having too much fun. There's too much witty banter. It's all too easy.

Last time, he fucked it up on purpose. Thing was his fuck up led him straight here. Another attempt to escape could only make it worse. He's trapped, and he's going to have to let life lead its course. When the ambush comes, he'll be unarmed and sober and culpable.


End file.
